Kyrie waited till there was a lull early in the afternoon, when the diner was almost empty. Tom busied himself with those things he did when his cooking expertise was not needed—scrubbing the cooking surfaces, marinating meat, bringing out frozen dough and setting bread to rise. The bread was one of the few things Tom didn't make himself, from scratch. The woman, Laura, who had applied here some days ago, had offered baking skills, which, of course, would be a great help. Kyrie hoped she would show up for an interview as soon as the weather permitted it. For one, with the addition of Conan and the seeming disappearance of the unreliable waitress Beth, she was now the only woman on staff. For another, she wasn't sure how much longer Keith would want to continue working for them.
He had only ever been a part-time employee, because of his studies, but since he'd discovered Summer had taken pictures of Tom and Conan, he hadn't been back at all. Kyrie didn't know if he was upset with them, or if it had just finally been borne upon him how difficult and dangerous their position was. Probably both. She would have left them and herself far behind, by now, if she could. At least . . . she couldn't leave Tom. Any more than she could walk away from herself. But she would have left their shifter condition far behind.
As she walked towards the annex, she found herself daydreaming of a life in which neither she nor Tom were shifters. How peaceful the days would be and how devoid of unusual events.
Of course, she knew in her heart of hearts that the daydream was great foolishness. Because, if Tom hadn't been a shifter, he'd be living somewhere in New York City. Or perhaps he would have been sent to those Ivy League colleges where the wildest behavior is excused if the family pays enough. At any rate, he would never have crossed paths with her.
And besides, things were the way they were, so she must do what she must do. She felt a twinge of fear at the idea of exactly what she must do. Tom would disapprove. In fact, Tom would be very, very upset. If he ever found out. She didn't want to keep secrets from him. But sometimes people had to be kept in the dark for their own good. And in this case, Tom had to be kept in the dark for the continued ability to call his soul his own.
She approached Conan as he finished wiping a table, and spoke in an undertone, her ears listening for any sounds of approaching footsteps, which might be Tom coming to check on them. "Conan, do you have a way to contact the representatives of the dragon triad, here in town?"
She'd obviously been so careful that Conan himself had not heard her approach. He dropped the tray he'd been holding, and bent to retrieve it, his gaze fixed on her, his eyes big as saucers.
Seeing him open his mouth, and very much fearing how much noise he might make, she put her finger in front of her lips. He nodded and it seemed to her he looked a little pale, but when he straightened up, he whispered back, "Well, you know that Himself can take over my mind and . . . and listen in, but . . ."
"I don't mean like that," she said. "I mean, do you have a phone number to call or something? I presume that I could still approach them outside the Three Luck Dragon?" she asked.
"Inside," he said. "The owner. Yes."
"Then would you call whatever number you need to call and tell them I come in peace, but I want to talk to their leader?"
Conan gave her a long and analyzing stare, before giving her a very curt nod. "When?"
"After Tom goes back to the bed-and-breakfast to sleep," she said, "which I figure will be around six, because that's when Anthony will come in again."
"Oh," Conan said and then, "you haven't slept at all yourself."
Kyrie shrugged. "No. I can go twenty-four hours without sleeping. It just makes me more susceptible to shifting, but . . ."
He nodded. "I assume you . . . have a plan? And that you want our—the dragons' help with it?"
"Yes. Well . . . I want their help. I don't have a plan yet, but I'm sure one will emerge. Only, I must find out if they can help me, and then I must do what I can . . . I mean . . . I'm sure we can't fight this fight alone. And Tom won't ask for help." She saw him nod. "And Tom must never know of this."
Conan shrugged. "He won't learn it from me," he said. "Of course, the other dragons have their own . . . approach to honesty and promises."
"Meaning you can't promise me anything?" Kyrie asked, with alarm but not really surprised. She'd already once met the Great Sky Dragon's idea of morality. She wasn't sure he cared even for shifters that weren't his own kind.
After Anthony had come in, and Tom had gone back to the bed-and-breakfast to sleep, she went outside and—with trembling fingers—dialed the number Conan had given her. A heavily accented woman's voice answered, "Three Luck Dragon! How may I help you?"
Momentarily mute, Kyrie wondered if there was a polite way to say, May I speak to the boss dragon? Instead, she cleared her throat and said, "May I speak to the proprietor?"
The woman rattled something off, very fast, that appeared to be some Cantonese dialect, and Kyrie said, "Conan Lung told me to call. He said that the owner of the restaurant would speak to me."
There was a long silence, followed by the sound of cutlery and a rattle of plates and a voice saying something in an Asian language. Kyrie took a deep breath. Her thumb moved towards the disconnect button on the phone.
"Hello," a male voice said. It was a resonant voice, with almost no trace of an accent.
Caught off guard, Kyrie cleared her throat, nervously and said "Am I speaking to the owner of Three Luck Dragon?"
"Speaking," the voice said.
"Oh. Oh. Good. I wanted to talk about . . . about the owner of the diner . . . The George."
For a terribly long moment, while the speaker on the other side was silent, she thought he was going to ask "Who?"
But instead, when he spoke, he said, "The young dragon? The one whom Himself . . ."
"Yes." Kyrie hastened, not wanting to know if the man was about to say "the one whom Himself almost killed" or "the one whom Himself is protecting." That she didn't know which one the man was about to say betrayed her ambivalence about this being and about the step she was taking.
Was she doing the right thing? Or was she about to betray Tom's trust in her for nothing?
"I assume," the man said from the other side, his voice even more impersonal, colder, as though he were a receptionist talking to a stranger about some abstract transaction. "I assume that you do not wish to speak of this over the phone?"
Kyrie did not wish. No matter that Anthony was busy at the grill. No matter that she could go outside and attempt to talk from there. What she had to say was bound to make more than a few clients or passersby get curious. And then there was the fact that Summer might have friends or relatives coming around to see her place of death. There was already a clutter of flowers around the base of the pole, and one pink teddy bear clutching a heart. Summer's friends were bound to be journalists. Considering the paper was obsessed with cryptozoology, how would they react to hearing Kyrie talk of dragons. "It would be better if I may speak in person," she said. She remembered the parking lot, and the Great Sky Dragon in it. And all the other dragons around. Had this man—dragon—been there too? There was a great deal she'd rather do than see one of these dragons again. All else aside, they were a criminal organization and one populated by shifters, who could destroy her and Tom several times over. But she didn't have any choice. She'd run out of all choices.
"Come to the restaurant," the man said. "I'll be here. Ask for Mr. Lung."
Mr. Lung? Was he related to Conan?